Mr Frobisher-Pym said nothing. Wimsey felt it incumbent on him to express his interest, and did so.
‘It is very gratifying,’ said Mr Hancock, thus encouraged, ‘to see the people beginning to take a real interest in their church. I have really had very little difficulty in finding watchers for tonight. We are having eight watchers, two by two, from 10 o’clock this evening — till which time I shall be myself on duty — till six in the morning, when I come in to say Mass. The men will carry on till 2 o’clock, then my wife and daughter will relieve them, and Mr Hubbard and young Rawlinson have kindly consented to take the hours from four till six.’
‘What Rawlinson is that?’ demanded Mr Frobisher-Pym.
‘Mr Graham’s clerk from Herriotting. It is true he is not a member of the parish, but he was born here, and was good enough to wish to take his turn in watching. He is coming over on his motor-cycle. After all, Mr Graham has had charge of Burdock’s family affairs for very many years, and no doubt they wish to show their respect in some way.’
‘Well, I only hope he’ll be awake enough to do his work in the morning, after gadding about all night,’ said Mr Frobisher-Pym gruffly. ‘As for Hubbard, that’s his own lookout, though I must say it seems an odd occupation for a publican. Still, if he’s pleased and you’re pleased, there’s no more to be said about it.’
‘You’ve got a very beautiful old church here, Mr Hancock,’ said Wimsey, seeing that controversy seemed imminent.
‘Very beautiful indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘Have you noticed that apse? It is rare for a village church to possess such a perfect Norman apse. Perhaps you would like to come and look at it.’ He genuflected as they passed a hanging lamp which burned before a niche. ‘You see, we are permitted Reservation. The Bishop —’ He prattled cheerfully as they wandered up the chancel, digressing from time to time to draw attention to the handsome miserere seats (‘Of course, this was the original Priory Church’), and a beautifully carved piscina and aumbry (‘It is rare to find them so well preserved’). Wimsey assisted him to carry down the remaining candlesticks from the vestry, and, when these had been put in position, joined Mr Frobisher-Pym at the door.
‘I think you said you were dining with the Lumsdens tonight,’ said the magistrate, as they sat smoking after lunch. ‘How are you going? Will you have the car?’
‘I’d rather you’d lend me one of the saddle-horses,’ said Wimsey. ‘I get few opportunities of riding in town.’
‘Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. Only I’m afraid you’ll have rather a wet ride. Take Polly Flinders; it will do her good to get some exercise. You are quite sure you would prefer it? Have you got your kit with you?’
‘Yes — brought an old pair of bags down with me, and, with this raincoat, I shan’t come to any harm. They won’t expect me to dress. How far is it to Frimpton, by the way?’
‘Nine miles by the main road, and tarmac all the way, I’m afraid, but there’s a good wide piece of grass each side. And, of course, you can cut off a mile or so by going across the common. What time will you want to start?’
‘Oh, about seven o’clock, I should think. And, I say, sir — will Mrs Frobisher-Pym think it very rude if I’m rather late back? Old Lumsden and I went through the war together, and if we get yarning over old times we may go on into the small hours. I don’t want to feel I’m treating your house like a hotel; but —’
‘Of course not, of course not! That’s absolutely all right. My wife won’t mind in the very least. We want you to enjoy your visit and do exactly what you like. I’ll give you the key, and I’ll remember not to put the chain up. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind doing that yourself when you come in?’
‘Rather not. And how about the mare?’
‘I’ll tell Merridew to look out for you; he sleeps over the stables. I only wish it were going to be a better night for you. I’m afraid the glass is going back. Yes. Dear, dear! It’s a bad lookout for tomorrow. By the way, you’ll probably pass the funeral procession at the church. It should be along by about then, if the train is punctual.’
The train, presumably, was punctual, for as Lord Peter cantered up to the west gate of the church he saw a hearse of great funereal pomp drawn up before it, surrounded by a little crowd of people. Two mourning coaches were in attendance; the driver of the second seemed to be having some difficulty with the horses, and Wimsey rightly inferred that this was the pair which had been borrowed from Mr Mortimer. Restraining Polly Flinders as best he might, he sidled into a respectful position on the edge of the crowd, and watched the coffin taken from the hearse and carried through the gate, where it was met by Mr Hancock, in full pontificals, attended by a thurifer and two torch-bearers. The effect was a little marred by the rain, which had extinguished the candles, but the village seemed to look upon it as an excellent show nevertheless. A massive man, dressed with great correctness in a black frock coat and tall hat, and accompanied by a woman in handsome mourning and furs, was sympathetially commented on. This was Haviland Burdock of silk-stocking fame, the younger son of the deceased. A vast number of white wreaths were then handed out, and greeted with murmurs of admiration and approval. The choir struck up a hymn, rather raggedly, and the procession filed away into the church. Polly Flinders shook her head vigorously, and Wimsey, taking this as a signal to be gone, replaced his hat and ambled gentry away towards Frimpton.
He followed the main road for about four miles, winding up through finely wooded country to the edge of Frimpton Common. Here the road made a wide sweep, skirting the common and curving gentry down into Frimpton village. Wimsey hesitated for a moment, considering that it was growing dark and that both the way and the animal he rode were strange to him. There seemed, however, to be a well-defined bridle-path across the common, and eventually he decided to take it. Polly Flinders seemed to know it well enough, and cantered along without hesitation. A ride of about a mile and a half brought them without adventure into the main road again. Here a fork in the road presented itself confusingly, an electric torch, however, and a signpost solved the problem; after which ten minutes’ ride brought the traveller to his goal.
Major Lumsden was a large, cheerful man — none the less cheerful for having lost a leg in the War. He had a large, cheerful wife, a large, cheerful house, and a large, cheerful family. Wimsey soon found himself seated before a fire as large and cheerful as the rest of the establishment, exchanging gossip with his hosts over a whisky-and-soda. He described the Burdock funeral with irreverent gusto, and went on to tell the story of the phantom coach. Major Lumsden laughed.
‘It’s a quaint part of the country,’ he said. ‘The policeman is just as bad as the rest of them. Do you remember, dear, the time I had to go out and lay a ghost, down at Pogson’s farm?’
‘I do, indeed,’ said his wife emphatically. ‘The maids had a wonderful time. Trivett — that’s our local constable — came rushing in here and fainted in the kitchen, and they all sat round howling and sustaining him with our best brandy, while Dan went down and investigated.’
‘Did you find the ghost?’
‘Well, not the ghost, exactly, but we found a pair of boots and half a pork-pie in the empty house, so we put it all down to a tramp. Still, I must say odd things do happen about here. There were those fires on the common last year. They were never explained.’
‘Gipsies, Dan.’
‘Maybe; but nobody ever saw them, and the fires would start in the most unexpected way, sometimes in the pouring rain; and, before you could get near one, it would be out, and only a sodden wet black mark left behind it. And there’s another bit of the common that animals don’t like — near what they call the Dead Man’s Post. My dogs won’t go near it. Funny brutes. I’ve never seen anything there, but even in broad daylight they don’t seem to fancy it. The common’s not got a good reputation. It used to be a great place for highwaymen.’
‘Is the Burdock coach anything to do with highwaymen?’
‘No. I fancy it was some rakehelly dead-an
d-gone Burdock. Belonged to the Hell-fire Club or something. The usual sort of story. All the people round here believe in it, of course. It’s rather a good thing. Keeps the servants indoors at night. Well, let’s go and have some grub, shall we?’
‘Do you remember,’ said Major Lumsden, ‘that damned old mill, and the three elms by the pig-sty?’
‘Good Lord, yes! You very obligingly blew them out of the landscape for us, I remember. They made us a damned sight too conspicuous.’
‘We rather missed them when they were gone.’
‘Thank heaven you didn’t miss them when they were there. I’ll tell you what you did miss, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The old sow.’
‘By Jove, yes. Do you remember old Piper fetching her in?’
‘I’ll say I do. That reminds me. You knew Bunthorne …’
‘I’ll say good night,’ said Mrs Lumsden, ‘and leave you people to it.’
‘Do you remember,’ said Lord Peter Wimsey, ‘that awkward moment when Popham went off his rocker?’
‘No. I’d been sent back with a batch of prisoners. I heard about it, though. I never knew what became of him.’
‘I got him sent home. He’s married now and living in Lincolnshire.’
‘Is he? Well, he couldn’t help himself, I suppose. He was only a kid. What’s happened to Philpotts?’
‘Oh, Philpotts …’
‘Where’s your glass, old man?’
‘Oh, rot, old man. The night is still young …’
‘Really? Well, but look here, why not stay the night? My wife will be delighted. I can fix you up in no time.’
‘No, thanks most awfully. I must be rolling off home. I said I’d be back; and I’m booked to put the chain on the door.’
‘As you like, of course, but it’s still raining. Not a good night for a ride on an open horse.’
‘I’ll bring a saloon next time. We shan’t hurt. Rain’s good for the complexion — makes the roses grow. Don’t wake your man up. I can saddle her myself.’
‘My dear man, it’s no trouble.’
‘No, really, old man.’
‘Well, I’ll come along and lend you a hand.’
A gust of rain and wind blew in through the hall door as they struggled out into the night It was past one in the morning and pitch-dark. Major Lumsden again pressed Wimsey to stay.
‘No, thanks, really. The old lady’s feelings might be hurt. It’s not so bad, really — wet, but not cold. Come up, Polly, stand over, old lady.’
He put the saddle on and girthed it, while Lumsden held the lantern. The mare, fed and rested, came delicately dancing out of the warm loose-box, head well stretched forward, and nostrils snuffing at the rain.
‘Well, so long, old lad. Come and look us up again. It’s been great.’
‘Rather! By Jove, yes. Best respects to madame. Is the gate open?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, cheerio!’
‘Cheerio!’
Polly Flinders, with her nose turned homewards, settled down to make short work of the nine miles of high-road. Once outside the gates, the night seemed lighter, though the rain poured heavily. Somewhere buried behind the thronging clouds there was a moon, which now and again showed as a pale stain on the sky, a paler reflection on the black road. Wimsey, with a mind full of memories and a skin full of whisky, hummed to himself as he rode.
As he passed the fork, he hesitated for a moment. Should he take the path over the common or stick to the road? On consideration, he decided to give the common a miss — not because of its sinister reputation, but because of ruts and rabbit-holes. He shook the reins, bestowed a word of encouragement on his mount, and continued by the road, having the common on his right hand, and, on the left, fields bounded by high hedges, which gave some shelter from the driving rain.
He had topped the rise, and passed the spot where the bridle-path again joined the high-road, when a slight start and stumble drew his attention unpleasantly to Polly Flinders.
‘Hold up, mare,’ he said disapprovingly.
Polly shook her head, moved forward, tried to pick up her easy pace again. ‘Hullo!’ said Wimsey, alarmed. He pulled her to a standstill.
‘Lame in the near fore,’ he said, dismounting. ‘If you’ve been and gone and strained anything, my girl, four miles from home, father will be pleased.’ It occurred to him for the first time how curiously lonely the road was. He had not seen a single car. They might have been in the wilds of Africa.
He ran an exploratory hand down the near foreleg. The mare stood quietly enough, without shrinking or wincing. Wimsey was puzzled.
‘If these had been the good old days,’ he said, ‘I’d have thought she’d picked up a stone. But what —’
He lifted the mare’s foot, and explored it carefully with fingers and pocket-torch. His diagnosis had been right, after all. A steel nut, evidently dropped from a passing car, had wedged itself firmly between the shoe and the frog. He grunted and felt for his knife. Happily, it was one of that excellent old-fashioned kind which includes, besides blades and corkscrews, an ingenious apparatus for removing foreign bodies from horses’ feet.
The mare nuzzled him gently as he stooped over his task. It was a little awkward getting to work; he had to wedge the torch under his arm, so as to leave one hand free for the tool and the other to hold the hoof. He was swearing gently at these difficulties when, happening to glance down the road ahead, he fancied he caught the gleam of something moving. It was not easy to see, for at this point the tall trees stood up on both sides of the road, which dipped abruptly from the edge of the common. It was not a car, the light was too faint. A waggon, probably, with a dim lantern. Yet it seemed to move fast. He puzzled for a moment, then bent to work again.
The nut resisted his efforts, and the mare, touched in a tender spot, pulled away, trying to get her foot down. He soothed her with his voice and patted her neck. The torch slipped from his arm. He cursed it impatiently, set down the hoof, and picked up the torch from the edge of the grass, into which it had rolled. As he straightened himself again, he looked along the road and saw.
Up from under the dripping dark of the trees it came, shining with a thin, moony radiance. There was no clatter of hoofs, no rumble of wheels, no ringing of bit or bridle. He saw the white, sleek, shining shoulders with the collar that lay on each, like a faint fiery ring, enclosing nothing. He saw the gleaming reins, their cut ends slipping back and forward unsupported through the ring of the hames. The feet, that never touched the earth ran swiftly — four times four noiseless hoofs, bearing the pale bodies by like smoke. The driver leaned forward, brandishing his whip. He was faceless and headless, but his whole attitude bespoke desperate haste. The coach was barely visible through the driving rain, but Wimsey saw the dimly spinning wheels and a faint whiteness, still and stiff, at the window. It went past at a gallop — headless driver and headless horses and silent coach. Its passing left a stir, a sound that was less a sound than a vibration — and the wind roared suddenly after it, with a great sheet of water blown up out of the south.
‘Good God!’ said Wimsey. And then: ‘How many whiskies did we have?’
He turned and looked back along the road, straining his eyes. Then suddenly he remembered the mare, and, without troubling further about the torch, picked up her foot and went to work by touch. The nut gave no more trouble, but dropped out into his hand almost immediately. Polly Flinders sighed gratefully and blew into his ear.
Wimsey led her forward a few steps. She put her feet down firmly and strongly. The nut, removed without delay, had left no tenderness. Wimsey mounted, let her go — then pulled her head round suddenly.
‘I’m going to see,’ he said resolutely. ‘Come up, mare! We won’t let any headless horses get the better of us. Perfectly indecent, goin’ about without heads. Get on, old lady. Over the common with you. We’ll catch ’em at the cross-roads.’
Without the slightest consideration for
his host or his host’s property, he put the mare to the bridle-path again, and urged her into a gallop.
At first he thought he could make out a pale, fluttering whiteness, moving away ahead of him on the road. Presently, as high-road and bridle-path diverged, he lost it altogether. But he knew there was no side-road. Bar any accident to his mount, he was bound to catch it before it came to the fork. Polly Flinders, answering easily to the touch of his heel, skimmed over the rough track with the indifference born of familiarity. In less than ten minutes her feet rang out again on the tarmac. He pulled her up, faced round in the direction of Little Doddering, and stared down the road. He could see nothing yet. Either he was well ahead of the coach, or it had already passed at unbelievable speed, or else —
He waited. Nothing. The violent rain had ceased, and the moon was struggling out again. The road appeared completely deserted. He glanced over his shoulder. A small beam of light near the ground moved, turned, flashed green, and red, and white again, and came towards him. Presently he made out that it was a policeman wheeling a bicycle.
‘A bad night, sir,’ said the man civilly, but with a faint note of enquiry in his voice.
‘Rotten,’ said Wimsey.
‘Just had to mend a puncture, to make it all the pleasanter,’ added the policeman.
Wimsey expressed sympathy. ‘Have you been here long?’ he added.
‘Best part o’ twenty minutes.’
‘Did you see anything pass along this way from Little Doddering?’ —
‘Ain’t been nothing along while I’ve been here. What sort of thing did you mean, sir?’
‘I thought I saw —’ Wimsey hesitated. He did not care about the idea of making a fool of himself. ‘A carriage with four horses,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘It passed me on this road not a quarter of an hour ago — down at the other end of the common. I — I came back to see. It seemed unusual —’ He became aware that his story sounded very lame.